Fragments of Memory
by Aimee2
Summary: Sam has an identity crisis.


TITLE: Fragments of Memory

AUTHOR: Aimee

RATING: G

DISCLAIMER: Sam Beckett, Al Calavicci, and all things _Quantum Leap_ related belong to Belasarius Productions, not to me. I intended no disrespect by the creation of this story, but rather a tribute to a beloved show and characters.

WARNING: This is a slash story. That is, it's about two men in love. If you don't like that, don't read it. Also, there's mushiness ahead. Sorry.

SUMMARY: Sam has an identity crisis.

NOTE: This story was originally published in the zine _The Angel and the Dreamer 5_.

* * *

Fragments of Memory  
by Aimee 

"Trapped inside a twisted world,  
I can't decide what is even real anymore  
As though I ever knew.

Tangled in these silhouettes,  
Floating facedown in a river of regrets  
And thoughts of you."

--"Holy Tears," Tara MacLean

This is one of the easiest leaps I've ever been in, so far. I usually hate the beginning stages of a leap, before Al gets here, when I don't know who I am or what's going on -- total disorientation. Not even the complete amnesia I suffered during my first leap is as bad as that; there are a few basic facts about myself that I know at a bone-deep level that memory can't touch: I am male and I am white. And in that first leap, both of those things held true. I wonder sometimes if whoever's in charge did that on purpose, to make my transition a little easier. In normal leaps, I can't count on _anything_, not even those most basic touchstones of identity -- not even that those things _are_ basic components of a person's identity. The longer I leap, the less important they seem, until I think nothing is intrinsic to the self. And I am left with nothing.

I am nothing.

But I have managed to avoid the pitfalls of uncertainty this leap, with no effort on my part at all. It appears that whoever I've leapt into is in the same boat as I am: he's a man (yes, I _am_ a man this time; there's no mirror in my room, but I checked my chart first thing) without a memory. He has amnesia. My initial post-entry confusion went completely unremarked by the hospital staff; apparently victims of head trauma are _expected_ to be a little vague. They tell me I was mugged and my wallet stolen, so my identification might take a little time. The police claim to have some solid leads, however, and they should solve the mystery any day now. It will just take a little time.

And, if there's one thing I _do_ have, it's time.

So I wait, and do what the doctors tell me. I earn a reputation as a "good patient" with the nurses. I have little else to do. I have been here five days already.

I wonder where Al is. If he's okay.

He's the only thing I can consistently remember from leap to leap, my anchor in a sea of uncertainty. Even when I can't remember my own name, I remember Al. I need him, need the comfort his presence brings me. I think that, without him, the leaping would have driven me insane by now. He's my port in this storm. He knows me better than I know myself, and I _need_ that connection.

The only time I really feel like I _have_ a self is when I'm with him.

Who are we, really? Do we each have some unique spark that makes us us; do we have our own personalities, our own souls, something buried deep in the core of our being that shapes us, regardless of circumstance? So that it doesn't matter if we're born a beggar or born a king, that _something_, that center, is always the same?

Or do we learn to be who we are as we grow up? So that there's no difference between a physicist, a cop, a hairdresser, and a beauty queen except the geography of space and time?

Aren't we really just the sum of our memories?

So who are we when we cannot trust the few memories we have? Between the swiss-cheesing and the shifting timelines, I don't know what's real and what's imagined -- or even if those categories have any meaning. How can I trust my memory when the past itself changes on a daily basis?

How can I know who I am when I don't even know what I look like? When I'm wearing someone else's body?

Do I -- Sam Beckett -- even exist?

I don't know anymore.

And yet . . . and yet . . . I do know. No matter how confused I get, no matter how insubstantial and unreal I feel, there is a part of me that refuses to give in to this existential doubt. I do exist. When everything else has been taken away from me, and my memories lie in shards all around me, broken and scattered, I gather up a handful of the fragments and hold tight to them. They comfort me. I believe in them even though I cannot believe with assurance that they actually happened.

Maybe "believe" is not the right word. Rather, say that I have faith in them. I believe in them the way some people believe in God -- wholeheartedly, with no assurance of their factual existence, but no real need for such assurance. _I_ know they're real, no matter what the rest of reality thinks.

They are my memories of Al. Of loving Al. Of touching his face with tenderness, and feeling flesh under my fingertips. Of lying next to him in a darkened room, watching him sleep. Of kissing his lips and savoring their taste. Of hearing his voice whisper, "I love you, Sam."

I know who I am, then. I'm the person whom Al Calavicci loves.

I'm the person who loves him back.

_That's_ who Sam Beckett is.

My reverie is broken when a happy-looking nurse comes into my hospital room, followed by a grinning hologram. Al! Finally! I sit up straighter and try to look alert as they come closer.

"Dr. Beckett," she chirps cheerily. "You have a visitor!" She smiles as if she tracked him down herself, then vanishes discreetly out the door.

I glance at Al in puzzlement. A visitor? Can she somehow see him?

. . . wait. _Dr. Beckett? _

"Sam!" Al sits next to me, his worry-lined face smoothing in relief. "Thank God we finally found you!" He takes my hand.

I stare at it in astonishment for a full minute, before slowly raising my eyes to meet his. "You . . . you're really here," I say in wonder. I bring my free hand up to rest on his shoulder. "I can touch you. You're not a hologram."

"A holo--" He stops suddenly as a dawning understanding replaces the confusion in his expression. "Sam," he says carefully. "This isn't a leap. You're home; you've been home for years now. You just got knocked on the head and got amnesia. But you're you. You're home. And now I'm finally here with you."

"Home?" I ask. "Home?" I'm dazed by the thought. This is too much to take in. "But -- I don't remember!" I don't specify _what_ it is I don't remember; he knows it's everything.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Sam, it'll come back to you eventually. At least you remember me, right?"

My grip on his hand tightens. "Of course I remember you. You're my soul."

He stares at me wildly for a moment, then makes a strange, strangled sound deep in his throat and hugs me to him, fierce and hard.

I hug him back, laughing and crying at the same time. Whether I ever remember or not, it doesn't matter. Al's here, so I know everything will be all right.

THE END


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